


Love on the treadmill

by lanjingyeets



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gyms, M/M, Pining, Pining Keith (Voltron), Seriously bad pining, Someone save Keith please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 22:48:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14507166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanjingyeets/pseuds/lanjingyeets
Summary: Once upon a time, there was a boy on a treadmill. He was a fine, young man, not ugly in the slightest, that could brag about his refined language for hours, as blasphemous words that held the power of making his ancestors shrink in their tombs left his mouth, mixing soft expressions with expressions worthy of a truck driver.He had big dreams, this boy. Dreamed about going to space, become all cool and tough, with boys and girls begging to be friends with him –despite the fact that he had three friends in total, and Lance was an asshole half the time.-But Alas, the Evil could not stay still in front of such a pure individual, and so it sent its most powerful weapon.Said weapon came in the shape of a 6”1 man with dark hair, thick arms and legs and an ass that Keith begs he could sleep onto.If it were a normal, classic, family-friendly fairytale, we all know how it would go. Keith would become stronger and, thanks to the help of his magical friends he would defeat the Evil and the weapon sent to defy him.But this is not a classic fairytale, and it definitely isn’t family-friendly.Keith wants the weapon to fucking destroy himOr: Keith is very gay and obvious for a man in the gym





	Love on the treadmill

**Author's Note:**

> Love on the treadmill - a.k.a I suck at naming fics and writing them.  
> Please enjoy this mess!

«I hate him,» Keith mutters under his breath, biting his lip.

«Hm,» Lance looks up and takes a long sip from his drink, his fingers playing with the blue straw poking from the plastic lid. «I know for a fact that you really don’t.»

Keith scowls at him and kicks him under the table, gaining a soft whine and a hurt expression. He ignores Lance and his pout, letting his eyes scan the rest of the coffee shop.

It’s a nice place, he’s always thought that. Nothing better than a good cup of coffee before and after his training session to feel better and shake all remnants of tiredness off. Nothing better than the comfy chairs, and the dim lights, and the soft rock music playing in the background- even though he admits that the choice of music is kinda like a punch in the eye, compared to the shop itself, with its light colors.

Nothing better, he repeats. He repeats it more than once, as his eyes unceremoniously run down the length of the guy standing in front of the counter, completely oblivious to his gaze.

He’s wearing a black tank top today, one that’s decent enough to go around but not decent enough to properly cover his shoulders and his ridiculously wide back, strong neck coming out of the hem and dark buzzed hair. He definitely has no idea of what he looks like to everyone, completely unaware of the hungry gazes that converge on him, like sheep called by the shepherd. He just stands there, talking with the barista with his hip cocked against the counter, his right hand lifted against his hip.

It’s funny, Keith thinks looking at the metal there, up to his shoulder, where grey meets pink and tissue; Lance always likes to joke about it.

The guy at the counter laughs at something Allura, the barista, says to him popping the gum in her mouth, and Keith doesn’t need for him to turn around to imagine the small wrinkles around his eyes, the cocky curve of his smile.

Tank top guy raises his left arm and takes a handful of paper tissues, firm and thick muscles squirming under skin, the veins on the back of his hand slightly swollen as he flexes his fingers around the thin paper.

«God, I so hate him» Keith mutters again and sinks a hand in his hair, tugging at the messy strands he tried to collect in a ponytail. Attempt failed, because when he searches for the hair tie he finds nothing but air, and when he looks around he sees it laying miserably on the floor, next to what seems to be a dirty footprint and Cappuccino foam.

Rest in peace and dirty mess, hair tie.

«I mean, I know you have some problems when it comes to understanding words- especially mine,» Lance rocks on the rear legs of his chair, playing with his phone. «But really, you really don’t hate him.»

«What would you know about it, you idiot.»

«For a simple fact.»

Lance puts down his phone and straightens a finger, looking at Keith like he has the answer to all questions, raising an eyebrow in that smug face that Keith wants to punch every time he sees it. And Keith already knows what Lance’s going to say next, so he prepares his fist and makes sure that Lance’s dumb head is covering him from Tank top guy in case he turns around when Keith finally breaks Lance’s nose.

«Lance I swear if you say another word…»

«Mechaphilia. That’s what it is! Always said that your love for your bike wasn’t normal-»

Lance has the dignity to squawk quietly when Keith kicks him again, harder this time, right on his shin. The sound of old sneakers against bone and skin has never sounded better. Keith thinks he might record it and play it at night when he has trouble sleeping. Maybe put it as Lance’s ringtone, even.

«That was uncalled for» Lance mutters under his breath, teeth bare and his eyes look up at Keith. Keith, who just shrugs and crosses his arms, raising his gaze. «You were begging for it.»

«That’s nasty, even for you.»

Keith ignores him. His eyes are far away once again, his lips parted. Tank top guy has turned around, his young face now clear and imprinted in the black of Keith’s eyelids. He wasn’t wrong, and a subtle and cocky grin curves the corners of Tank top guy’s lips, his firm arms exposed as he leans against the counter.

«Jesus,» Keith shudders under his skin and quickly turns his head, looking at Lance like he’d grown a third eye. «Walking around like that should be illegal.»

«Like what?»

Lance is skeptical. He’s always been a dumb kid.

«Like… that. With those guns. Jesus Christ.»

«Uh, okay, first of all, please keep His name out of your thirsty thoughts» Lance looks at him and twists his mouth, following his gaze to where Tank top guy is standing. «Also, I’m pretty sure he can’t fit guns between his pecs and oh my God why am I telling you this.»

«You’re a man of culture as well,» is the only answer Keith gives him, a dreaming look in his eyes. Lance thinks he looks like a puppy when it sees his favorite toy or food offered to him.

Lance does not need this information.

Lance definitely does not want to think of Tank top guy as food or as a toy.

Tank top guy finally finishes… whatever it was that he was eating, and he turns to walk to the door, sending them a glance. Lance witnesses the second Keith's soul dies, and it's the second when Tank top guy's eyes meet his across the room and when Lance feels nails digging into his wrist in a painful, really painful way.

Tank top guy leaves the coffee shop, bringing all of his muscles and round butt (and Keith's last ounce of dignity) with him. Keith slides down the chair and looks at the ceiling, and what the fuck, Lance thinks with a scoff, his eyes are truly leaking.

«This was a God-sent message» Keith murmurs, his head almost disappearing behind the table as more people turn to look at him, worried.

«Pretty sure it was to tell you that your place is Hell is booked» Lance replies, massaging his hurting wrist. 

Keith wouldn't say that one of the main reasons why he goes to the gym is to drool over hot guys.

Keith doesn't go to the gym to drool over hot guys.

He goes there to drool over one (1) hot guy, and that's a big difference.

He’s not really the kind of guy who goes and fawns over the first pretty pair of muscles he sees, which is exactly the reason why he can pinpoint the moment when his life started falling apart piece after piece, in the laughable, pathetic imitation of a castle of dominoes.

Keith likes to think of it as a miraculous event, something to smile about in the evening, standing by the fireplace with your special one by your side, holding your hand, as you narrate the story to your children, and then to your grandchildren, and maybe your great-grandchildren, if you’re stubborn enough to fight against life itself.

Keith also knows that it’s nothing like that. In the utterest, most obvious way.

It starts like a fairytale, though.

Once upon a time, there was a boy on a treadmill. He was a fine, young man, not ugly in the slightest, that could brag about his refined language for hours, as blasphemous words that held the power of making his ancestors shrink in their tombs left his mouth, mixing soft expressions with expressions worthy of a truck driver.

He was not rich, but that is also a common trope in fairytales, and so Keith can go on with his delusional fantasy.

He had big dreams, this boy. Dreamed about going to space, become all cool and tough, with boys and girls begging to be friends with him –despite the fact that he had three friends in total, and Lance was an asshole half the time.-

But Alas, the Evil could not stay still in front of such a pure individual, and so it sent its most powerful weapon.

Said weapon came in the shape of a 6”1 man with dark hair, thick arms and legs and an ass that Keith begs he could sleep onto.

If it were a normal, classic, family-friendly fairytale, we all know how it would go. Keith would become stronger and, thanks to the help of his magical friends –where Lance is the toad- he would defeat the Evil and the weapon sent to defy him.

But this is not a classic fairytale, and it definitely isn’t family-friendly.

Keith wants the weapon to fucking destroy him.

And he kinda does the first time he steps into the gym, because the mere sight almost has Keith fainting in his place. Almost, because even though he does fall face first onto the led display, he’s got Lance by his side ready to catch him before he reaches the floor. Dear, mean, fucking Lance, who Keith isn’t sure whether he should thank him for saving his neck or if he should just punch him, because the weapon is looking at him with what he can only translate as a pitiful face.

Forces of Evil: 1 – Keith: 0.

Here ends the sad story of Keith Kogane’s thirsty gay crush over a man he’s seen for a total of 10 seconds- at best.

The next time Keith sees him, he’s wearing a white tank top that does nothing to cover his body as it stretches across his chest. He’s in the weightlifting area, holding in his hand a dumbbell that, Keith is sure about it, reads 27 kg on its side.

Tank top guy flexes his arm, his bicep thickening, and he furrows his brows in concentration.

Keith hits his head against the pull up bar.

On the evening of Keith's birthday Lance walks to him with the grin of a victor on his face, his eyebrows curved high and eyes glistening dangerously.

He has heard Tank top guy talking with Allura at the entrance and came back with a name.

«Your boyfriend’s called Shiro. You owe me one, since I already gave you a birthday present.»

Shiro.

Keith thinks about throwing Lance's gift -compression gloves- out of the window. That name is the only thing he could have asked for as gift.

The gym Keith goes to is not that big as many people would like, and it smells bad, especially in the evenings after dozens of men decided to pour their repressed feelings in exercises. But it doesn’t cost much and the tools weren’t half bad. Plus, it was just ten minutes away from his house, so he just took the chance.

But what really bought him was the coffee shop at the first floor, and the treadmills pressed in the corner against the wall. The position, plus the earbuds, makes it impossible for other people to try and talk with him. It’s a win/win situation.

What Keith hadn’t considered was that, from there, he could see everyone else doing their stuff. Which, of course, includes Shiro. He’s not really a running type, so he rarely goes to the treadmills area –and when he does, Keith makes sure to run away as quick as possible.- His favorite area is, with no doubt, the weightlifting one. That’s where Keith finds him most of the time, when he’s just started his session and Shiro is already halfway through.

Keith has the feeling that it’s never going to change. That they –he- will just keep acting like nothing’s wrong.

Damn, that really makes it sound like they’ve been dating for three years and adopted a cat, and suddenly broke up. And while Keith does have a cat -a little, cheeky brown bastard called Waffles- he's pretty sure that they're not dating.

He doesn't even have the courage to start a conversation with Shiro; dating? Sounds like a sci-fi movie to him.

It's with a heavy heart that Keith walks inside the gym that day. Lance has decided to abandon him to his destiny, ditching him for a movie and an unhealthily big bowl of popcorns, and Keith's earbuds have decided that they were tired of witnessing Keith's ridiculous pining over aa man he sees four times a week.

When he looks over he sees Shiro already in the weightlifting area, his skin glistening with sweat and the black top glued to his defined back, shoulders raising and falling heavily as he breathes. Shiro holds the towel around his neck against his face, wiping the sweat and pushing his bangs back.

He has this thing, that makes it impossible to look away when he moves. Maybe it’s the muscles, Keith thinks; maybe it's the fact that he's insanely handsome. In any case, it's deeply unfair. Keith feels offended by all that attractiveness, mostly because he can’t worship Shiro and the floor he walks on like a God.

Silently, Keith turns his head when he sees Shiro move towards him, and reaches his quiet spot in the corner, swearing under his breath for the lack of earbuds to distract himself.

The two hours of his program pass slowly. Shiro leaves after about one hour and a half and Keith looks as he exits the gym heading to the changing room. With a sigh he returns to his routine.

When he himself reaches the changing room, no-one is there; just the noise of water running down in the shower room where some latecoming is getting ready to leave.. Keith takes a deep sigh and picks his phone out of his pocket, scamming through the notifications. Most of them are from the group chat with Lance and some of his friends, who Keith still isn't sure where they fit in his life.

Lance is allergic to text messages as usual, as all his messages are just voice notes over voice notes. And as usual, Keith only listens to the first and to the last one, just to see if it's something important. Lance's voice fills the changing room, loud and brighter than the sun, and Keith cringes lowering the volume immediately.

Lance blabbers about some stratospheric something in some place that Keith doesn't bother remember- Lance will repeat it at least thirty other times before it comes, he'll eventually grasp it.

In the end Keith shuts the phone off before the voice notes ends and takes another deep sigh. The water stops running in the shower room, and steps move closer from the wet tiles to the dry ones in the changing room.

Keith looks up, still slightly annoyed by Lance's voice. And it's ridiculous, really. Because Shiro is standing there, in all his muscly, clean and scented half-naked glory, barely covered by the towel around his hips and a surprised look on his face, while Keith, with a towel hastily thrown over his head, feels like the bad imitation of Virgin Mary of Michelangelo’s Pieta. A smelly, sweaty and bad, really bad imitation, for what matters.

Keith hopes his face is not going aflame as much as he feels it, and with an abrupt movement of his head as greeting he turns around and walks to his locker, looking for clean towels and clothes.

This is absurd, Keith thinks removing his shirt and rummaging through his stuff. He's seen the man's legs, watched them too many times before, but seeing them like this…

The video of a man crushing a melon between his thighs comes to his mind and Keith has to do his best not to choke on air.  Subtly he pokes his own legs -looking like thin sticks compared to Shiro's, and pouts.

He hears shuffling from behind, feet against the tiles, and then Shiro clears his voice. «Uh, hey.»

Keith turns around with his eyes wide open. He imagines that someone has walked inside, someone that Shiro knows, but no. They're alone. And Shiro is smiling at him, with a smile that is not quite the one he’s used to see on his face. It's less cocky, warm and friendly. Keith sees his eyes shine and thinks about the stars in the sky.

«Uh…»

God bless language, always failing him.

But Shiro's smile just grows bigger and he raises a hand to scratch his nape, and Keith is suddenly reminded that they're standing there, both half naked, and he could probably cook an egg on his cheeks for how hot they feel-

«You're the guy of the treadmills area, right?» Shiro asks, lowering his arm. «I always see you there. Or at the coffee shop. With your friend? The tall one.»

«Lance» Keith squeaks, and clears his voice. «That's… that's my friend. Lance. He's an asshole.»

He remembers him. Shiro noticed him. It'll take him a couple years to elaborate that.

Shiro laughs quietly and shakes his head, leaning against the lockers. «He seems a nice guy.»

«The trick is in the word “seems.”»

Keith licks his lips and lets his eyes run down Shiro's body, imitating him. The lockers are cold against his back, he hopes it'll help him lower his body temperature.

Small wrinkles form at the corners of Shiro's eyes. «And you?» he asks then crossing his arms. Keith furrows his brows. «I'm not an asshole. I think.»

«Ah, no,» Shiro laughs, and Keith feels his heart melt in his chest, burning intensely. «I meant your name.»

«A-ah.»

Keith's ears burn and he wishes he could slap himself. «I'm Keith. And you're Shiro. Nice to meet you.»

«You know my name?» Shiro asks, cocking an eyebrow and smiling, a little bolder. Keith deadpans and presses his back against the lockers. «Lance,» is the only explanation he gives.

Shiro laughs again and looks at him. Keith sinks his head between his shoulders and looks away. He probably looks disgusting, all sweaty and smelly, his hair is a mess, he probably has something on his face and that's why Shiro's staring at him-

«Do you want to go out?»

Keith's head snaps so fast that he almost hits the locker behind, and he looks across the room at Shiro. He's still smiling, and there's a nice, delicate blush on his cheekbones. Keith opens and closes his mouth, and the first thing that leaves his lips is «We're half naked.»

Shiro's eyes widen and he bites his bottom lip, eyes skimming across the bare skin of Keith's chest. «We are» he says, and Keith snorts, despite everything. Then Shiro moves away from the lockers. «Later, I mean. When we’re not half naked,» and he grins. «Do you want to go out? And get to know each other. How does that sound?»

Keith freezes, and blinks. Once. Twice. He pinches his arm and no, he's awake, and Shiro is still there, smiling and looking at him, waiting for a reply.

«O-okay,» Keith stutters, raising his head. «Yeah. That sounds… pretty good.»

Shiro’s smile grows and he relaxes his shoulders. «Great» he murmurs, turning towards his locker. He gets dressed, and Keith stays there, speechless and with warmth spreading across his body.

Shiro turns again to face him and his smile is big, happy. He has a jeans jacket and a dark shirt, a snapback covering his hair. «I'll wait at the coffee shop, then» he says.

He walks out, and Keith is too numb to reply.

He thinks about the fairytale that is his life, about the boy on the treadmill and the big dreams, and the forces of Evil that tried to stop him. And like in every fairytale, there's the plot twist.

A big, big smile curls his lips and he turns towards his open locker, a soft giggle escaping his lips, and suffocates a cheery, triumphant laugh against his towel.

**Author's Note:**

> Yell with me on [Twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/petitkeef) and [Tumblr](https://petitkeef.tumblr.com)!! ^^


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